


The Princess and the Scoundrel

by Vera (Vera_DragonMuse)



Series: Always Been a Pencil [7]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recreational Drug Use, two teenagers kiss once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:14:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22885345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_DragonMuse/pseuds/Vera
Summary: Sometimes a one-night stand at your brother's wedding can change the course of your life.
Relationships: Tommen Baratheon/Theon Greyjoy, Tormund Giantsbane/Jon Snow, Yara Greyjoy/Margaery Tyrell
Series: Always Been a Pencil [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1337353
Comments: 32
Kudos: 116





	The Princess and the Scoundrel

Yara Greyjoy was thirty-six years old. She loved two things: the sea and her brother. 

“So this is the saddest bachelor party I’ve ever attended,” she slumped into the couch. It was just the two of them, Theon tucked into the other side of the couch. 

“Yep,” Theon saluted her with a mug of tea. 

Tommen had been swept out a few minutes ago by a motley collection of nerds and Starks, leaving the two of them gratefully behind. 

“I can’t fucking believe you’re getting married.” 

“Mhm,” Theon looked peaceful in shadows, folded safe and warm here in this house with too much cat hair, “same. S’gonna be good though.” 

“Yeah,” her hands twitched against her thighs. She didn’t drink tea. She’d kill for a whiskey, but they never had booze in this house. Theon’s medications interact badly with it and Tommen apparently didn’t mind abstaining, the weird little fucker. 

“Want to get high?” he reached into a pocket and took out two fat joints and her jaw fell open. 

“How?” 

“Rickon gave them to Tom,” Theon grinned, flashing the teeth she’d paid dearly for. “And Tom just gets nervous when he smokes. So bounty for us.” 

They got utterly fucked off their tits, giggling at Spongebob until three in the morning, wiping out the house’s collection of snacks. For brief flashes, he was Theon of over a decade ago, a flaming asshole with more charm and looks than he should legally have. She missed that version a little, even though he’d been terrible. They’d been a matched set, too young for the power they wanted and too loud about it. Of course, she'd made luckier, better choices, but that was just how it was. 

Sometimes, in the worst quiet hours, she imagined who they might’ve been if they grew up together. Terrors of the sea and bars alike, maybe. Allies as close as blood allowed, certainly. A force to be reckoned with instead of pitied. Krakens at the height of their power taking what they wanted and never apologizing for it. 

And instead they’d had fumbled their way into sibling-hood only after things had gone entirely to shit, groping in the darkness to find each other. What a rip off. 

The next day, she dutifully stood by as he dressed in a grey suit with a dark green t-shirt underneath. When he’d asked her to stand up with him, she’d asked already resigned, 

“What do I have to wear?” 

There’d been a long pause on the phone, then a rough laugh, “Fuck off, you can come naked except for your boots if you want.” 

“Might scandalize your Starks,” she’d swallowed hard, hearing the words in between. 

“Let them be scandalized then. Just wear what you want.” 

So there was no horrible dress to wrestle herself into or worse some parody of a man’s suit. Instead she was in her favorite brown leather pants, white shirt, brown leather vest and boots. She’d spent a little time on her hair though, braided back from her face and she had the family’s thick iron jewelry on her wrists and fingers. The boots she had happily given a good shining, pleased for the excuse. 

“You look all right,” she said begrudgingly as he fussed with his hair. He’d put on a deep emerald eyeliner that made the green of his eyes vivid and bright instead of their usual murky seaglass. He took the family bracelet she’d offered to him, too broad on his bony wrist. No gloves today. No hoods. He was himself exposed and she was...proud. Which was stupid. He wasn’t doing anything rare or hard. People got married every day. 

“Thanks,” he grinned at her in the mirror and she had to grin back. It was practically a rule. 

The wedding took place in the shark tunnel of the KL Aquarium. It was surreal, the blue light dappling the knot of guests and the sharp toothed ancient bodies gliding past. Tommen wore a matching grey suit and a bright blue t-shirt. Someone had tamed his hair into ringlet curls. He held onto Theon’s hands like they were stopping him from drifting away. 

She blamed the vows for what happened later. Not Tommen’s which were a blubbery mess that she didn’t care enough to translate. No, it was the way Theon looked at him and softly said, 

“You make every day better and I want to do the same for you for the rest of our lives,” like that was something he was allowed to say. Words that he could make with a mouth that had been formed by the same DNA that had made hers, then shattered and rebuilt. Like that was something Greyjoys were allowed. 

For all they had joy in their name, it’s as forigen a concept to her as flying without an airplane. Used to be for Theon too, but she looked at him looking Tommen and she saw it there in his eyes, a glitter instead of a gleam. 

Afterwards, she’d been prepared to post up next to him for photos and then for all the bits of the reception when the grooms were separated. The guests were almost entirely Tommen’s, of course, so she could snark with him by a reception table. 

And for the pictures that did happen. She didn’t smile much, but she made an attempt not to look entirely grim, remembering the bleakness of their parents’ wedding photo, their mother in a rigid grimace as their father glowered. One particularly horrible shot had been blown up large and hung in the dining room like a warning of things to come while they ate silent dinners. 

There are more pictures with endless configurations of golden heads. Myrcella and Yara were thrown together a few times, a less matching pair of sister-in-laws would’ve been hard pressed to find. Myrcella wore a short, soft red dress with her hair in a complicated updo and a Lannister diamond gleaming at her throat. 

“It’s nice to gain a sister. I hope you’ll visit more often,” Myrcella offered a smile, a hand. And Yara shook, but didn’t give her an empty platitude back. 

The reception was held in the Hippo Room. Yara had sanely assumed that was just a name assigned to a nice reception hall, but no her fucking brother had his reception next to an actual tank that contained hippos. The small knot of children present were pressed to the glass, watching the giant beasts float placidly along. 

“They’re murderers, you know,” Yara muttered. “Why the hell are we standing next to a tank with animals that can jump out of that tank and kill us all?” 

“Tommen loves animals, I love the sea,” Theon shrugged, popping a mini-hotdog into his mouth. “Compromise.”

“You hate the sea,” she stared at him. “You complain about it constantly.”

“Eh,” he chewed with his mouth a little open, probably to annoy the shit out of her even though she did the same thing. Stupid hereditary blocked nasal passages. “Sometimes the things you love make you mental.” 

“Damn right they do,” she ground out and stayed standing with him in front of the tank of murderers so he’d have company while the party doted on Tommen. 

Except that it didn’t happen that way. A group of older people swarmed him minutes later, fussing over his suit and talking about his vows. Yara realized they were the cat shelter volunteers as they asked thirty questions about Theon’s ridiculous cat that didn’t even catch mice. 

He chatted with them, clearly happy under their attention and she slipped away bemused. She got a drink and watched the hippos with the kids though she kept a slight distance. 

“I like your boots,” one of the girls said quietly to her, eyeing them covetously. She looked a little like Tommen with a thick head of curls. Eddie, she guessed. 

“They’re for stomping,” Yara explained, “on whoever gets in my way.” 

“My Sandy has a pair like that,” Eddie nodded, “but he says they don’t come in children's sizes.” 

So Yara lost a few minutes, sending the Hound links to kid’s boots with steel toes while Eddie goaded her on and that wasn’t so bad. Especially because he was just on the other side of the hall and looked increasingly annoyed that he couldn’t seem to escape his conversation with Catelyn Stark to murder her. 

“Eddie, your mom has a plate made up for you,” Tommen’s voice creased the air. “And I think you’ve got enough Amazon wishlist items even for PopPop.” 

“Okay!” Eddie pat Yara’s knee, “Thanks, Miss. Greyjoy!” 

“Captain,” Yara corrected, but it was too late, Eddie was gone and Tommen was standing there giving her a soft look. “Stop that.” 

“You look like Han Solo in that outfit,” he said approvingly. And she knew enough pop culture for that reference at least. 

“I’m no scruffy nerfherder,” she growled and...okay okay maybe it was kind of nice that Tommen laughed his little bell laugh. 

He was cute. She got the general idea of the appeal for Theon, who still flinched at loud noises. Tommen was unthreatening and kind-hearted with a seemingly bottomless patience for the special breed of jerk Theon could still sometimes be when he was in a mood. 

“Theon says you’re afraid of hippos.” 

Okay, maybe it was because he was kind of a little asshole himself, “I’m afraid of any animal that’s bigger than a car and can run at high speeds.” 

“I didn’t think you were afraid of anything, it’s kind of refreshing,” Tommen went on merrily and she might’ve said something sharp, but Theon came to collect him for their first dance. 

It was a simple stand and sway to some song she didn’t know and she took the pause in the action to start in on the buffet. She had to cram in a mouthful quick when they announced the brother-sister dance. Which seemed kind of fucked up too considering Tommen’s parentage, but whatever. She let Theon put his hand on her shoulder and they sort of barely moved around the floor while Tommen and Myrcella floated in elegant circles. 

“This is supposed to be a parents thing, isn’t it?” she stared into his eyes which were disconcertingly wet. Probably the lighting. 

“Yeah, I’ll get right on asking mom,” he snorted. “How expensive is a last minute necromancer?” 

She didn’t step on his foot, but only because she knew he didn’t have many toes to spare. 

And they both knew it was more to cover for Tommen, who might have the world’s most badass stepmom, but who’s actual mother was still safely locked up. (Yara had met Cersei one time and had been left with the following impression in this order: all-encompassing fear, awe, revulsion, and knee trembling horniness to the point that she sort of wanted to give Jaime a deep nod of understanding. )

They danced. No one died. It was fine. 

And then...then Theon’s friends were there again. They were his friends, she thought, these kindly old people that fussed and joked with him and asked for dances. Even a few of Tommen’s nerd friends peeled off to give him his own share of their time. 

So she people-watched mostly, already planning an early escape. She had a fifth of whiskey in her hotel room and no compunctions about spending some money on pay-per-view. Her eyes drifted over the dance floor and found a striking couple, waltzing with perfect form. She didn’t know them and immediately deleted the man from memory as he stepped away to take another man’s hands. The woman was alone, feet still moving in time to the music and lit perfectly by a single light from above. 

She was an astonishingly, jaw-droppingly, impossibly hot woman. How did her brother even know someone like her? She had long auburn hair, wide eyes, and a sensuous knowing mouth. Her dress was black, stiffly embroidered in gold, crossing over her chest to give a heady suggestion of her breasts and also the strong impression that the suggestion was all you were ever going to get. 

This part wasn’t the part that was Theon’s fault. Yara would’ve tried it on with a woman that looked like that anywhere, let alone in a suggestive setting like a wedding. The music was still playing as she stepped up to her. 

“Hello, Captain Greyjoy,” the woman smiled at her with perfect pearly teeth and fuck, okay so Yara should know her. Probably a good time to admit that she didn’t and ask her name. 

“Hello, gorgeous,” Yara said instead. “I thought I’d ask for a dance.” 

“Just thought?” she had that high born way of smiling that was both indulgent and daring. Condescending on a lesser woman. 

“I’m asking,” Yara didn’t smile like that, but she knew the weight of her own smirk. “Can I have this dance?” 

“I’d like that.” 

Yara offered her hand and happily, the woman ceded her the lead without any back and forth about it. She smelled good too, not floral at all though there was a single rose in her hair, bloody red against her braids. The smell was something more herbal and deep. She was fast on her feet, maybe expecting Yara to set a heavy footed pace, but Yara had taken dancing lessons too (not the formal steps of a main-lander tutor, but in rowdy dance halls all up and down both coasts). 

They moved faster and faster, the woman’s heels clacking against the floor as she spun away and came back. The fabric of her dress was rough with texture under Yara’s hands, but her skin where it brushed her was soft as silk. After the dance, Yara ordered them both two shots of tequila and the woman shot down the first one, leaned in and kitten licked Yara’s wrist for the salt of her sweat before chomping down on her lime. 

“I know where we’ve met before,” Yara stared at her as she took her own shot. 

“Where’s that?” the woman was laughing and it was surprisingly indelicate, almost horsey. Fuck that was hot too.

“In my filthiest dreams,” Yara declared. 

“Oh, we’ve met in the waking world,” the smile quirked. “You don’t even remember my name, do you?” 

“Is it something mythical?” Yara studied her face, trying to match it to memory and failing. “Bet it’s a goddess name.” 

“Mnm,” the woman blinked slowly, “not even close. Flattering, but not close.” 

“I can’t believe we’ve met before,” she decided. “I’d remember you anywhere.” 

“Would you?” she was still smiling, not offended so that was good. 

And it seemed less fun to ask after that. They danced again, oblivious to the rest of the party, heat building between them. Yara registered Theon saying goodbye, chuckling low in her ear like a self-satisfied demon before heading off to his honeymoon (at an amusement park, just what the fuck with those two). 

“I’ve got a room at the hotel,” Yara mentioned when their bodies were so close that they were two layers away from public indecency. 

“Let’s go.” 

They were both a few drinks in, but there was a shuttle back to the hotel crammed with other drunk guests, who ignored the two women making out in the front seat in favor of their own rash decisions. Tumbling and laughing, they made it through the lobby and to Yara’s room. She didn’t bother with the lights, just tumbling the woman onto the bed. 

It was a night to remember and Yara savored every minute of it, storing it in her memory to keep her company. She learned several things about the woman: 

1\. One of Yara’s hands could pin down both her wrists with room to spare.  
2\. The woman would let her play rough, but was undoubtedly the one in control.  
3\. The herbal smell was something she washed with because it was everywhere and Yara would never smell fresh basil and not think about her breathy moans.  
4\. She kissed like she meant it, lavishing them like she would never run out. 

It was a good list. They went for nearly two hours before exhaustion finally took the woman and she fell asleep on the only pillow left on the bed. Yara studied her face, before sitting up and going to use the bathroom. She splashed water on her face and checked the time. She could be at the port before dawn, waiting for her crew to return as if she’d never left, a tactic she used to great effect often. 

But the question of the woman’s name hung thick in the air. They had met before and the woman had tangled it like bait in front of her the whole night. Still barefoot, Yara moved across the floor to the discarded handbag, a tiny sparkly little thing. She opened it carefully, finding a bottle of pepperspray (smart), lipstick (matching the color smeared over Yara’s neck), and a credit card (jackpot). 

The name was hard to read in the dark so she took it to the window, tilting it until the silvery letters caught the light. 

Margaery Tyrell. 

Oh. 

OH. 

Oh, fuck. 

Yara pressed her forehead to the window, pressing her thumb to the raised letters. No wonder she hadn’t recognized her. It’d been over twenty years. 

They’d been little more than children though Yara had felt very grown up, standing at the bottom of the deck, offering her hand to help the ladies onto the enormous yacht. Pleasure cruises were not Balon’s favorite way of making money, but it wasn’t hard work, barely any crew needed really. Practically pure profit if you put your fourteen year old daughter to work. 

That day had been some wealthy girl's sixteenth birthday party and the gathering guests were all teenagers wearing expensive things with a few parents following behind, some of them already half in the bag. 

Once they were on board it was a leisurely circular course that would be set intentionally slow for the gathered party-goers. There was a hired wait staff handling food and drink. Balon had cleaned up for the event, posed in the cabin’s window in a stiffly ironed uniform. The effect was good, even if Yara knew he was barely paying attention and longing for his bed. She’d been warned off trying to fraternize with the guests (not that she was at all interested), so once they were sailing, she went down below to her cubbyhole, fully intending on staying there until it was time dock again and she’d be needed for some grunt work.

She worked on her math homework for a bit, then set it aside in favor of listening to music and doodling in a notebook. The headphones managed to block out most of the sounds from above, but she was ever alert as she’d been trained. The metal ladder that led down to the bunks had a distinctive rattling and when it terminated in a heavy thunk, she launched to her feet to swing open the door. 

A girl was crouched in a pool of her own dress, heaving a sob. 

“Um,” Yara looked up the ladder, but apparently no one else had noticed this sudden fall from grace on high. The ladder wasn’t immediately visible from the open deck where the party was clearly still going on. “Are you okay?” 

The girl shook her head, heaving in a deep breath and getting to her feet, stumbling a little on the slick metal. She was wearing some kind of spindly heels. Heel. One shoe had fallen off, landing by the last rung of the ladder. Yara reached for it and when she stood back up, they were very very close together. The girl had nice eyes, and soft looking lips. 

“Thank you,” the girl said so quietly, Yara almost missed it. 

“Do you...do you need help going back up?” 

“I-” the girl looked up the ladder. A gale of laughter went up on the deck. “No...I. I was looking for a place to get a way for a moment. I didn’t know how slick it was here.” 

“It’s a ship,” Yara said bluntly. 

“Yes,” the girl shrugged. “I haven’t been out on the sea much.” 

“This isn’t even the sea-” Yara stopped. The girl’s eyes were still wet and red. And Yara was still holding one of her shoes. “You can come in for a bit. If you want. There’s not a lot of room.” 

The yacht was one of the least comfortable ships in the fleet. For the crew anyway. Just a few beds built straight into a wall with not enough room to sit up. But there was one bed bolted to the center that they all used as a sort of living room/couch thing. Yara led the girl there, a few hopping steps and they sat down together. 

“I’m Margaery Tyrell,” the girl managed some kind of smile, her hand stuck out for a handshake. 

“Yara Greyjoy,” she shook it and marveled at the perfect coral pink nail polish on the girl’s fingernails. “My dad’s the captain.” 

“You’re a Greyjoy?” Margaery frowned, “You should be up there with the rest of us. It’s all old families.” 

“There’s families and there’s Families,” Yara snorted. That was a lesson she hadn’t needed teaching. “No one invites us to those kinds of parties and that’s fine by me.”

“What kind of parties do you go to then?” 

Yara hadn’t actually been to a party or at least one where she was a welcome guest. The crews did have rowdy celebrations or just loud Friday nights, but she had to sneak into those and was usually run off when she was noticed. No one wanted the boss’ daughter hanging around. 

“Why were you looking for a place to hide?” 

“Not hide,” she countered. “Just...a break.” 

“Yeah, I like to take breaks too,” Yara muttered. She’d spent a few hours here and there crying alone in the closet of her room, so no one would even accidentally hear her sobs. “Did someone hurt you?” 

“No, just my feelings, I guess,” the sigh was gusty, “My cousin Alanna says I look like a pig and usually I- I don’t care, but I tripped right in front of everyone and dropped my plate and then she made that horrible noise.” 

“A pig?” she stared at the face in front of her. “Where did she get that from?” 

“My nose,” Margaery looked down, “I guess it sticks up a little.” 

“Have either of you ever actually seen a pig?” she scoffed. “You look like...like one of those statues. The ones with women wearing curtains city halls and stuff.” 

“I do not,” the tears slowed though, so Yara kept that as a win. “Do you spend a lot of time with pigs?” 

“Not on purpose,” she shrugged. “But we do cargo more than parties and there’s a lot of animals. I like not living stuff better.” 

And somehow that led to Margaery asking her questions about working on ships and then they were talking about school and a million other pressing things for young teenage girls. Yara couldn’t remember anymore all that was said, only how it felt. How it seemed they’d traded a dozen secrets, their hands slowly creeping closer together. 

The snapshot of herself at that age was brassy and brave, but also entirely hollowed out with sorrow. Her mother and older brothers were dead. Her youngest brother had been taken out of her clutching hands without a look back to settle some deal that she didn't even understand. She barely went to school, constantly taken out to work this or that job. 

No one has listened to her in years. Certainly no one had asked a question. But Margaery had listened. She'd even eventually curled those pretty nails and delicate soft fingers around her own calloused hand, holding it tight as she whispered about how she sometimes felt she lived in a prison of ribbon. Just waiting trussed up for the right husband, so she could be taken care of while furthering her grandmother’s ambitions. 

“Don’t do that,” Yara whispered back. “Don’t let them make you something you don’t want to be.” 

“I have to. My brother...he won’t do it.” 

“It’s not olden times,” she had held on, afraid to hold too tight in case she hurt her, “we can stand on our own and make our family names just by being ourselves. Fuck, if we get married we don’t even have the shitty name anymore anyway.” 

“I like being a Tyrell.” 

“I like being a Greyjoy,” and she’d even half-meant it, despite everything. “I’ll like it more when this is my ship. When they’re all my ships.” 

“I want to make things. Clothes,” her lips quirked, “I guess it’s nothing you’d care about.” 

“I like clothes!” Yara protested, suddenly all too aware of her practical worn outfit. “They keep me from being naked.” 

“Margaery!” A worried voice carried down the ladder. “Where are you? You’re freaking me out!” 

“My brother,” Margaery’s hand had slipped from hers. 

The brief bubble popped. They weren’t friends or confidantes. Moments away from being strangers. 

“Better go, I’ll spot you up the ladder, so you don’t fall on your ass this time,” Yara got up. 

“Oh..ok,” Margaery didn’t seem offended by the brusqueness, just eager to go and reassure her brother (Laurel? Laurie?). 

But when they got to the door, Margaery stopped. She turned. Yara blinked, came up short. Close all over again, her breath caught in her throat. 

“Ladder is that way,” she managed. 

“I know,” Margaery touched her hand again like a butterfly landing on a long. “Thank you. It was nice to meet you.” 

“Yeah it was-” 

And then Margaery was kissing her. It was a mess of a kiss, aimed a little too low and with barely any pressure. But it was lips on hers for the very first time and Yara’s heart pounded in her ears. 

“It was really nice to meet you,” Margaery said again and then she stepped daintily over the lip of the doorway and practically flew up the ladder so that the last thing Yara saw of her was the swirl of her skirt and the curve of her calf. 

And that was it. Yara’s thumb pressed so hard into the letters of the credit card that she thought for a wild moment that Margaery’s name would be imprinted there permanently. She shoved the card back into the tiny purse and closed it with a snap. 

The kiss was just a memory. It was nothing. It was less than nothing. She’d barely thought of it since she was old enough to do more than kiss and that hadn’t been all that long after that night. She set the purse back down where it had been dropped. 

She was still going to go, obviously. She had work to do, a job that she did genuinely love now. 

And Margaery had just been toying with her, being so coy about her name. Like it would have mattered if Yara had known. Or maybe Margaery had just enjoyed having the upperhand. 

It was all ridiculous and if it had happened at a different wedding, a different setting. She would’ve been gone. 

This was the part that was Theon’s fault. The part where Yara thought about his words, his eyes, the way he clearly meant it all. 

And just....fuck. 

She reached into her duffel bag and found the black marker she kept in her pack of ‘you’ll probably need this at some point’ stuff next to the duct tape. She eased back onto the bed, studying Margaery’s sleeping face. No twitches, she was deep under. 

Yara wrote carefully, on the perfect milky skin of Margaery ’s forearm, 

_To give feedback on tonight’s servicing, please call (555)332-5431_ and then with a shit-eating grin added a quick doodle of a rose that got very yonic with a curious tentacle poking at it. 

Then she slipped out the door with an extra spring in her step. The number was very much her actual cellphone number, but who the fuck would call someone after that? It was obnoxious, a little mean, and had all the red flags in the world spiked up around it. It wasn’t much of an invitation. 

So it was done. 

It was entirely totally fucking done. 

Her cabin on the _Iron Jaw_ had been her father’s once. She’d thrown out all of his things when she’d first step foot on board as the captain, dumping them unceremoniously into a box and drop kicking it onto shore to be picked over by yard salers. She’d redone it in simple solid pieces, including a wide bunk that let her spread out and sink into the mattress. Sleep came swiftly and left just as fast when the light poured through the porthole. 

She left her phone in the cabin. There was no signal once they got a little ways from the shore anyway. The run took them all the way down to Stonehelm, dropping off shipping containers of unprocessed ore. Navigating near Estermont this time of years took care, the waves unusually high. She gave her attention to her ship and her crew. Her eyes were ever on where they were going, no time for where they’d been. 

They arrived and then she had a rousing argument with the dockmaster who claimed not to have been expecting them despite the name written on his rosters. After that, she didn’t trust his people to unload properly, so she stood silently by, watching and judging until it was finished. By then it was late and she didn’t bother leaving the ship though she let her crew go. She slept the sleep of the just. 

Then and only then did she pick up her phone. 

There was a text from an unknown number. It’d come in late that afternoon. 

_Regarding the servicing: 3.5 out of 5 stars. Full point taken for rudeness in leaving without saying goodbye. Half point taken for using permanent marker when there was a perfectly good pen and paper a foot away. Otherwise, ten out of ten, would be serviced again. -M.T._

“What the fuck?” Yara whispered to herself. 

She didn’t reply to that message. Instead she opened up a new window. 

It had taken Yara some time, but she wasn’t alone and friendless in the world. Far from it. She had several good friends and never mind they’d all been hookups once upon a time. That only helped in this situation she thought. 

_u up?_ she sent, not up for the task of calculating time differences. 

**no** came the reply. 

_i fucked a hot girl and didn’t know she was my first kiss_

**know all the words in that sentence, no idea what it means**

_ME EITHER_

Her phone rang and she sighed in relief when Ygritte’s face flashed up on the screen. 

“Hi,” she said closing her eyes and balancing the phone on her face. 

“You’re the sensible one,” Ygritte scolded her. “We’re supposed to just beat up on Jon’s asinine decisions and talk about how much better we are than him.” 

“I know,” she groaned. “This was not on purpose, trust me.” 

She heard Ygritte shifting too, probably under some enormous pile of blankets. 

“Okay, you sound all flat and weird, so it must be serious.” 

“It’s not serious,” she said too quick. “It’s just...weddings.” 

“Weddings where you fuck your ex?” 

“Not my ex.” 

It wasn’t that long a story. Yara boiled it down to a few lines, and then just read the text message. 

“Okaaay, so what’s the damage here?” Ygritte yawned and Yara scowled. “You had a good night, she’s clearly open to having another good night.” 

“But- she basically lied to me! And I was an asshole about it.” 

“Everybody lies, Yara. And she apparently likes your assholeishness. Rejoice. Yay.” 

“It’s not yay!” she snapped then stopped. Why wasn’t it yay again? 

“You’ve got a heart still,” Ygritte said a little more gently which was still pretty rough. That’s why they liked each other. “Can’t stop that shit from beating. Might as well let it take you for a good ride once and awhile. What’s that worst that happens?”

What was the worst that could happen? A fuck buddy failure was hardly rated on the list of Horrible Things that Had Happened to Yara. 

“Thanks. How’s the thesis going?” 

Listening to Ygritte systematically take apart her advisers was invigorating. Once Ygritte hung up, Yara stared at the messaging app for a long second and finally just sent back, 

_where do u live now?_

The reply came in while she was brushing her teeth. 

**Highgarden sometimes, sometimes in KL**

Yara dried her hair roughly with a towel, considering routes and practicalities. 

_delivering to the shield islands in a week. Meet up? Raise that rating to a solid 5._

**I’m willing to revise it. Dinner first?**

Yara frowned and then nodded once to herself, _you like crabs?_

**For dinner, as a pet, or the venereal disease?**

She snorted, _meant dinner. Who keeps a pet crab?_

**Tommen probably.**

_nah, what’s he need that for when he’s already got a kraken?_

**I liked the doodle by the way. Cropped it in photoshop and hung it my office.**

_did not_

Margaery sent a picture. It was of a meticulously orderly drawing desk, a line of sharpened colored pencils arrayed to one side. On the fabric covered bulletin board was a series of fabric swatches, a Polaroid of four teenage faces one that might be Margaery crammed around a table, and...yes, a print out of a picture of the rose and tentacle doodle neatly cropped so you couldn’t tell it had been drawn on an arm at all. 

_i’m gonna do it again with all your nice pencils so it matches_

**If you do it on me again I’m going to draw a mustache on you next time you fall asleep. I had to use nail polish remover to get that off.**

_that would’ve been useful to know yesterday_

**hope I don’t need to know that again.**

_no promises. I look great with a mustache anyway._

Yara put the phone down. She had other things she should be doing. It was easy to ignore when there was work to be done. 

The next time she picked it up there was another picture. This one must’ve been from the wedding though she didn’t remember it being taken. She was standing by the bar looking judgmentally over the crowd. Margaery had used a filter to put a huge Monopoly man mustache on her. Then a series of fire emojis. 

After that they texted every day, not a lot, just a few at night, Mostly about their day or whatever random thought had snagged at Yara in her down time. Margaery sent more pictures, never of herself. Designs she was working on or interesting things she saw. 

Eventually, laying in her bed with the lights off Yara texted, 

_never forgot u, just fyi. Just didn’t recognize you._

**I saw your picture in their house once. That’s why I knew what you looked like. 14 was a long time ago.**

_that was my first kiss ever, u know_

**It was the first one that I gave someone else.**

_did you ever get back at that cousin?_

**No. But living well is the best revenge, right?**

_heard that, don’t believe it. Stabbing is the best revenge._

**Might be overkill in this situation. She was just a mean teenager, who wasn’t?**

_she was so wrong though. U were so cute that i almost threw up when you touched my hand. Not smooth at 14._

**I thought you were the coolest girl I’d ever met. You didn’t act like anyone else I knew.**

_same_

By the time they were about to meet in person again, Yara didn’t know what to think. She’d gone on dates before, of course, but with people like her. People who didn’t take these things too seriously. She’d stared into her limited closet while packing her bag. They were meeting somewhere casual. Margaery had already seen the closest thing she did to dressing up. And naked. So what did it matter? 

She settled on just putting on a fresh pair of work pants and the navy polo shirt she sometimes wore if she was dealing with a client face to face. Her hair she just washed and pulled back from her face. She was what she was and that was that. 

With long practice, she got her bike down the dock and onto the road. It came to life between her thighs, easing away some of her stress as she drove. If things tanked at least she could go for a long drive after. It had been awhile since she’d taken leave actually. Maybe she’d take a week or two to drive up North to see Ygritte face to face, it’d been awhile and the woman would insist on living somewhere landlocked. 

Tony’s Crab and Steak Grill was a regular enough place. There was a mix of minivans, motorcycles, and a few nicer cars parked in the lot. She wondered which one was Margaery ’s, playing a bit of a guessing game as she walked to the door. Probably the sleek like silver thing that was definitely expensive, but understated. 

The hostess looked up as she came in, 

“Reservation for two under Greyjoy,” she said quickly, not scanning the restaurant to look for her. Just in case..in case she was there or wasn’t and she wasn’t sure which would be worse. 

“Your other party member is already here,” the hostess pointed to a table in the back. The windows faced the water though it was set farther back. Margaery was sitting there, silhouetted by the last of the afternoon sun. She had on a silky looking top that was cut low on her back, a few delicate chains looping over her spine. 

Her hands were on her drink, turning the glass around and around. She was nervous too. 

Yara made an effort to walk casually to the table, keeping her face neutral as she slid into her seat. 

“Hi.” 

“Hi,” Margaery smiled. “Nice pick, you’ve been here before?” 

“Once or twice,” she picked up a menu, not really looking at it. “Usually just get steamed crab.” 

Which was how she got to watch delicate polished nails seize around a mallet and smash the ever loving shit out of a dead shelled creature, 

“This is fun,” Margaery grinned at her, her teeth neatly bisecting a chunk of crab meat. 

“Used to just do it ourselves on the shore if we could catch them,” Yara supplied. “Dad would use the butt of his knife, crack the whole thing in a second.” 

“He’s gone now?” 

“Mm, died a few years back.” 

“And your uncle.” 

“Heart attack,” she articulated carefully. Nothing to see here, m'am. Definitely just heart failure. “Just me and Theon now. He didn’t want the business, so he just earns a percent of the profit and I get a bigger slice for doing the work. And you’ve got your own thing too. I liked the...blue floaty thing from the last collection.” 

“You looked it up online?” Margaery didn’t seem annoyed, but a little flattered. “I didn’t think it’d be up your alley.” 

“I wanted to know what you were up to,” she shrugged. And that was normal, right? It’d seemed normal while she was doing it. “They have all your shows up on youtube.” 

“You probably have a better idea of what I’m doing than I do of what you’re doing,” Margaery shrugged, “I read up on the business end because I understand the numbers, but the boat part not so much. You really did turn it all around. Profits are higher than your father ever got them.” 

“He was drunk by the end. Wasn’t hard to do better than that,” she smiled thinly. “And my uncle was more interested in what he could take than the good of the company. Not a lot of competition.” 

“You should still be proud,” she said firmly. 

“I didn’t build something with just my own hands like you did.” 

“Please, I was born into a rich and well-connected family that could afford to indulge my whims. It just so happens that I’m very very good at what I do on top of that,” she took a sip of her drink. “I bet I could make you something you’d like.” 

“I’m a tough customer,” Yara speared a piece of meat. 

“My favorite kind,” her nose wrinkled a little when she smiled. 

“Do you want to see the ship?” She offered, the offer rising in her unbidden. “Just the night watchman on it now, so no one’ll bother us if we just want to have a drink on deck.” 

“I’d really like that.” 

Margaery’s car was not the little silver thing. She had the red muscle car at the end of the lot that made a nasty deep growl when she stepped on the gas. 

“I like to go fast,” she explained, with a cheeky grin. 

They didn’t race each other to the dock, but Yara was already making plans for a day when they might. Certainly, the car had no issue keeping up. 

“This is the _Iron Jaw_ ,” Yara held her hand out to Margaery , helping her up the plank. There were no heels this time, Margaery’s painted on jeans were paired with polka dotted flats that handled themselves well enough. “It’s the one I spend the most time with. The fleet is about thirty strong now. Mostly fishing trawlers and cargo ships. A few rentable yachts.” 

“Are you on the water most of the time?” 

The deck was mostly clear with the cargo lifted away with various necessary and unnecessary bits of detritus everywhere. 

“Yeah. There’s the Pyke, but...” she shrugged. It was an empty place now, a home she walked alone in except for the housekeeper that she paid to maintain it. “Most of the rooms are closed up. Some floors I’ve let out to tenants.” 

“The Lannisters sold Casterly Rock.” 

“I know,” Yara thought about giving away the home she’d grown up in, never to see the inside of it’s stone walls again. “I don’t think I could. Could you sell Highgarden?” 

“Even if it was in my hands alone, no I don’t thinks,” Margaery sighed, “but it still sees a lot of use. There’s no shortage of Tyrells, you know.” 

“I’ve heard,” Yara leaned against a rail looking out at the ocean. “We’ll die without heirs, so it’ll be gone from Greyjoy hands anyway.” 

“You don’t want children?” she asked it neutrally, no trace of her own thoughts on the matter. 

“No. Not really. I like my life, but it’s not really something I can have a brat along for the ride with,” she frowned, “I’ve never wanted to take care of anyone, but myself.” 

“I was grateful when Loras and Renly adopted,” Margaery crossed her arms on the railing, their arms just barely touching. “Willas is taking his time about finding someone and everyone kept looking at me like my womb was going to disintegrate into dust.” 

“Mm, dead at the great age of 36.” 

“A shame,” she agreed, “I never really thought about if I wanted children. I just figured they’d happen eventually like a marriage would.” 

“What changed?” 

“You’ll laugh.” 

“I won’t!” she protested. 

“The day Renly got married, there was this horrible mugging outside the event. Jaime was shot and Brienne got hurt too trying to defend him.” 

“Remember hearing about that,” she did, vaguely. It had been a big enough story to make the news at least. 

“And I thought about how brave she was and obviously, how much she must’ve cared about him,” Margaery looked down at her hands, “and I thought....no. Not for me. I never ever want to make that choice. I would. For Loras, for Willas. But not for some man that I married to check a box on my list.” 

“Don’t think dying for someone is a requirement, but what do I know,” Yara blinked.

“I just mean- I don’t know. You and your brother, what wouldn’t you do for him?” 

“There’s nothing,” she said without thinking about it, then was instantly flush with shame at being so transparent. 

“I know. Me too. How many people can you be like that for? It’s awful.” 

“It’s the worst,” she agreed vehemently. 

“So no, not interested in signing up for that. I just want someone who’s content to let me live my life and live theirs, but be there,” and now her eyes were on Yara again, all her little smiles gone to a frank stare. “I want to have someone that doesn’t need me, but wants me anyway.” 

“I don’t need anyone,” Yara lied and reached for her. 

The bed in her cabin smelled like herbs for days. She found a piece of paper in her front pocket the next time she wore those pants. It had five stars drawn carefully on it. 

When her phone dinged (she kept it in her back pocket now, even though she nearly forgot and sat on it twice), she picked it up as soon as she had a free minute. It was a text from Theon. 

_so you bagged my husband’s hottest aunt_

**new phone, who dis?**

It rang in her hand. She sighed and picked it up, putting some distance between herself and her crew. 

“What?” she gritted out. 

“What?” He repeated. “I’m so proud of you. She’s literally the most gorgeous person I know. Even Tom thinks he’s hot!” 

“That’s not what I said!” Tommen yelled in the background, “I said when I was a kid I thought she was the only woman prettier than my mom.” 

Both Greyjoys were quiet for a long second until Yara coughed, “Uh, lot to unpack there, huh?” 

“Some boxes are better to leave in the attic,” Theon said quickly. “ANYWAY, I wouldn’t be calling, except that apparently this wasn’t a one time only thing.” 

“What? No. What?” she frowned. How could he have possibly known that? 

“She’s got a very lively Instagram feed. Don’t you look at it?” 

“I don’t have Instagram,” she wrinkled her nose. “What would I use it for? Pictures of dead fish?” 

“You should get one just to follow. TOM! SEND HER THE PICTURE!” 

She held the phone away from her face, glaring then put it back to her ear, “How was your honeymoon?” 

“Awesome. Roller coasters, fireworks, and so much fried food that we both sweat oil,” he grinned. 

The picture came through, a screenshot of an Instagram post. It was just of the sea, the railing they’d leaned on. But Yara’s forearm was in one corner, probably unrecognizable to most. Except for the leather bracelet that Theon had bought her for a birthday a few years ago, an imitation of one of their iron pieces. Safer to wear when you worked with your hands around heavy equipment. 

The feed was called petals_pleasures after the fashion line, she noted. Margaery had added to the picture only ‘sometimes you have to take to the sea’ with a boat emoji after it. 

“Do you think everyone knows then?” she frowned at her betraying arm, not sure it was even meant to be in the shot, but so easy to crop out. 

“Nah,” Theon dismissed, “like I said she posts a lot. This one didn’t even get a lot of likes. If Tom hadn’t seen the bracelet, we wouldn’t know either. Big secret then?” 

“No,” she leaned against the same rail that jutted across the photo, “it’s not anything.” 

“You don’t usually go twice,” he pointed out. 

“Yeah well. Maybe I’m getting old and just want an easy pull.” 

“Maybe,” he allowed. 

Ten days later, she was in Margaery’s bed at Highgarden. It was a massive canopy confection in the middle of an otherwise restrained room. They hadn’t eaten beforehand, so Margaery disappeared down into the kitchen and returned with a tray of fruit and sandwiches cut into squares, 

“Are these...peanut butter and jelly?” she picked up one with a grin. 

“I like peanut butter and jelly,” Margaery had taken off her robe again, apparently content to eat naked with her. 

“Who doesn’t?” Yara nodded solemnly. “Salty and sweet is always a good combo.” 

“Do you ever run cargo to Sunspear?” 

“Sure,” she brushed a hair out of her mouth. It was a mess at the moment, “Every few months. They import a lot of fruit in the dry seasons.” 

“Do you think I could be a stowaway next time? I keep meaning to get down there to do some material shopping in person and it always seems to get pushed to another day.” 

“Yeah, sure,” Yara shrugged. “If you don’t mind sharing a berth with me, then you can ride for free.” 

Margaery boarded at the Shield Islands. She had her hair tied back in a practical single braid. She wore jeans with an actual hole at the knee and soft flannel shirt that certainly hadn’t started life off as hers. When Yara got to work, she left a respectful distance and started sketching in her book. 

It wasn’t bad having her around. Some of the crew seemed to start giving Yara a hard time over it, but considering she was pretty generous about letting them bring their spouses and children on board time to time, mostly they left it alone. 

“I can see why you like it,” Margaery said in the darkness of the cabin, “being in charge of a crew and a ship, always moving.” 

“It’s not that,” though it was some of that, “it’s this, how the water sounds against the hull. The creak of the engines....dunno. I don’t talk about it much, I guess. Don’t really have the words.” 

“You look right where you belong,” Margaery yawned, her hand resting against Yara’s stomach. 

Out of sheer curiosity, Yara went with Margaery to the fabric shops. There were several clustered on a single street, crammed in with button and notion sellers and a few jewelry stores. As soon as they walked into the first one, the red carpet was laid for them. 

“Madam Tyrell!” the shopkeeper exclaimed, “What a delight to see you in the flesh at last! When I got your email, I started putting somethings aside for you, come in, come in.” 

The shop was crammed with bolts of every color imaginable. Yara trailed behind as the shopkeeper pulled down heavy weights of them. Margaery made decisions quickly, usually only asking one or two questions. Apparently she was looking for something specific, ordering it in amounts that didn’t mean much to Yara. 

“Come back in an hour or so and I’ll have them packaged up for you!” 

So they went back out and found a food stall selling enormous pretzels slathered in butter and spices. They shared it back and forth, wiping their fingers on ineffectively small napkins. 

“They’re extremely good at sheer things,” Margaery explained, “there’s a technique that’s a closely guarded secret to keeping things so thin, but not prone to tearing. I’ll embroider some of it for the summer collection.”

“Not by hand?” 

“Some of it,” she licked her fingers, small kitten licks, “it’s part of what people pay for. That it’s done by hand. I have some help for the more complicated pieces or it’d take forever.” 

They dipped into a few more shops in the row, coming away with heavier and heavier bags. 

“Oh, just in here,” Margaery tugged her wrist on their way back to the ship. “Last stop, I promise.” 

The shop sold only scarves. People were wild. Margaery looked contemplative, wiping her hands on the napkins again before touching just the edges of the squares. Then she was moving quickly, pulling out seemingly reams of them, stacking them up at the counter. 

“For my brother’s family,” she explained as they were bundled into bags. “The girls like souvenirs.” 

Yet when she got off in King’s Landing where they’d gone to restock, she draped something around Yara’s head as they kissed. 

“I think it suits you,” she declared tying it under the fall of Yara’s hair. 

When she looked in the mirror later, she found a deep green scarf, embroider in silver, tied into a headband. She looked like a portrait of an ancestor hung in the Pyke, standing aboard a ship still made of wood and headed off to do something far less legal. 

After a moment’s hesitation, she took a selfie and downloaded Instagram. After a few tries, she settled on salty_by_nature and uploaded the picture with no caption. Then she followed petals_pleasures. The first photo was of the pretzel they’d shared, a bite already hewn out of it, captioned ‘Dornish delight with someone delightful’. 

Yara hit the little heart button. 

Then she texted Ygritte. An invitation was quick to be delivered and three days later she was watching the ocean recede in her rearview mirrors as she drove up her motorcycle up the thawed roads to Overwall. The very sight of her friend, arms crossed and eyebrows knit up as she waited outside her apartment building eased something in Yara’s chest. 

Even though it was nearly May, it was still cold here. They sat close together on Ygirtte’s roommates’ thrift store couch, under a heavy blanket. 

“So what dragged you up my way?” Ygritte asked. “Or did you miss my face?” 

“Was the hair actually. Needed my dose of ginger or my stomach goes all funny.” 

“Haha. So?” 

“So,” she sighed. “I think I really like this woman. She’s just...really something.” 

“And you drove all this way for advice?” 

“Nah, not really,” she admitted. “I think I know what I’m about. I just thought.., sometimes we only talk when things are shitty and it’d be nice to just not do that this one time.” 

“Okay,” Ygritte smiled at her, squeezed her knee. “How about we get rip roaring drunk then? Make a night of it?” 

“Great plan.” 

They drank through half a bottle of vodka and Ygritte called Jon through, putting him on speaker phone, 

“Jon here,” he answered. “Everything okay?” 

“Snoooooww,” Yara whined into the phone, “what are you doing? Is it boring? I bet it’s boring.” 

“Oh fuck,” he muttered, “you’re together.” 

“Jooooon,” Ygritte was propping her head up on one hand. Badly. “Come hang out with us.” 

“I’m a half hour out at least. By the time I get there you’ll be at vomit stage.” 

“Have to eat to vomit!” Yara crowed. “Come on, JonJon deliver us something fried to upchuck.” 

“I’m not enabling you to throw up.” 

“Snow, Snow. Snowy,” Ygritte did a long blink, “I want donuts.” 

“No.” 

“Pleeeeease, you pass that good donut shop on the way here.” 

“Yes, but I’m not actually going there, so.” 

“We still have whiskey left, you could catch up with us in like two shots, lightweight,” Yara whined. “And then we can all eat fried shit together and we’ll even let you tell us your hopes and dreams and not make fun of you.” 

“You will definitely make fun of me. You always do.” 

“You love it,” Ygritte declared. “Oh, get the jelly ones.” 

“I’m not coming,” he reminded them. 

“We never see each other any more,” Yara put on a sad voice. “Don’t you miss me?” 

“No.” 

“Jon!” they chorused indignantly. 

“I miss you a very very very small amount. Imperceptible to the human eye,” he amended. 

“C’mon, Jon, put on your big boy pants and bring us snacks.” 

Yara caught a background noise, “You asshole, you already left!” 

“Oh yeah, got in the car as soon as you asked,” he laughed. “I just thought I’d let you whine for a bit. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to town?” 

“Last minute thing.” 

They didn’t do more drinking until he got there, content to blearily recount memories with each other. He had two full bags that smelled amazing and Yara very carefully gave him a half-hug before tearing into it. Weirdo always smelled a little like fire, like the smoke couldn’t be washed out of his hair. 

“Donuts!” Ygritte said excitedly, kissing Jon on the cheek. “You don’t suck today, good job.” 

“My sole goal in life,” he said dryly. “Where’s the whiskey?” 

They were all pleasantly half in the bag in short order. Yara was on her third fried chicken leg, full, drunk, happy as a pig in shit. 

“Yara’s got a girlfriend,” Ygritte told him. 

“Do not,” she countered. “Only been a few dates.” 

“Who?” Jon sipped his whiskey, his left eyelid already going wonky like it did when he was tanked. 

“How do you never know anything?” Ygritte rolled her eyes, “Margaery Tyrell.” 

“Really?” Jon nodded and kind of just kept nodding, “I don’t know much about her, but I’ve heard good things. She makes clothes or something right?” 

“Yeah,” Yara peeled meat from the bone. “She’s a designer. Does all sorts. Pretty things.” 

“Wasn’t she married to Renly Baratheon?” his face screwed up in thought. 

“No,” Ygritte swatted at him, “he married her brother.” 

“Oh, right...right. The one with the,” he mimed flowing hair. 

“Yes, like a decade ago, keep up,” Ygritte snorted. “Loras. Don’t you listen to anything your siblings tell you?” 

“Not really,” Jon said merrily, “not about old family gossip anyway. Doesn’t mean shit to me.” 

“Must be nice,” Yara muttered, but really it didn’t mean much to her either. Except that people sometimes just expected her to know things because of her name. 

“Uh huh, perk of being a bastard,” Jon finished his shot, “Donut me.” 

Ygritte flung a donut at him and the subject changed to whether Tormund had actually killed a moose with his bare hands the month before or if he was being a weird bragger/heavily editing pictures in the group chat again. 

She woke up in the morning on the floor, hungover and a mouthful of flaming red hair in her mouth. Ygritte slapped at her when she tried to wake her up. Something smelled really good. 

“Pancakes,” Jon singsonged. He was in front of the stove, wearing Ygritte’s knit sweater from the night before.

“Gimme,” Yara heaved herself up and sat down heavily on a stool. 

The first time Yara met Jon it was because he and Ygritte were in the on again part of their on again/off again thing. He’d been a quieter person than, more inclined to listen than to talk and when he did say something, it usually made Yara roll her eyes. In fairness, she’d still hadn’t gotten over her hatred of all things Stark (brotherstealingmonsters) at the time. He’d grown on her though, with his puppy eyes and his clear devotion to Ygritte. Even when they’d broken it off for good, Ygritte had slid easily into a friendship with him that Yara maintained one too. 

“I was going to take today to hike out through the pine barrens,” he served her a fat pillowy mound. “Want to come with?” 

They all went, bundled up, Yara in a borrowed jacket and gloves. The last of the snow crunched pleasingly under her boots as her headache gave way to tylenol and the crisp smell of the pine needles. When they stopped to eat lunch, Yara took out her phone and before she could think about it too, aimed it at the tops of the trees and the blue-grey sky. She uploaded it to her Instagram. 

“What’re you doing?” Ygritte leaned in, “Holy shit, the seawitch is entering the 21st century!” 

“Shut up,” Yara grumbled. 

“No way, what’s your name? I’m going to follow you right now.” 

“On what?” Jon scooted in on the other side, “Oh! I didn’t know you had Instagram.” 

“It’s recent,” she said stiffly. 

“I’m going to follow you too.” 

“His is great,” Ygritte laughed, “just blurry fucking trees 24/7.” 

So now in between Margaery’s outfits of the day and arty scenery shots, there were Ygritte’s irregular photos of craft beers she was drinking and increasingly old and obscure books she researching out of in the archive or yes, lots of blurry tree pictures from Jon with the occasional sighting of Ghost. Once it was a smeary photo of Jon staring past the camera with Tormund pressing a kiss to his temple, clearly holding the phone out with his free arm to catch it. Jon looked quietly delighted, an expression he’d only become capable of the last few years. 

Maybe there was also the scattering of photos from the cat rescue, a feed managed by Theon in which he ruthlessly exploited his husband’s innate adorableness to get ugly cats adopted by posing Tommen holding or playing with them. 

“Will you come to trivia night while you’re here?” Margaery ’s voice was stretched like taffy over the phone, her enunciation softened in the dark. 

“Depends on what that is,” Yara was in suite at the Pyke. She stood in the dark by the window, watching the churn of water below. It was entering the storm season, too turbulent to cast out from. Some of the fleet would continue runs, but not return home for two or three months. Any that needed repairs had been hauled in dry dock. She had time on her hands. 

“We drink and try to get more answers right on trivia questions. Tyrion runs it at his bar. Loras, Pod, and Trulia and I are a team,” Trulia was a cousin, Yara remembered vaguely. “But she’s out of town.” 

“I don’t really know a lot of trivia,” the Pyke hadn’t even gotten wi-fi until five or so years ago. She’d mostly been badly homeschooled and then left to pick through the mildewed library once she knew enough to balance the books. Exposing the vast swaths of her ignorance to Margaery didn’t particularly appeal. 

“That’s all right,” that soft ease liquid in her ear, “we’re all sort of shitty at it. Varys’ team always wins. But it’s fun.” 

The Lion’s Tale was ridiculous and she liked it immediately. It reminded her a little of her favorite dance halls with it’s wood everything and brass finishes, except for the lush art on the walls. Brienne had poured her A Lady in the Bower when she came in without her ordering it. 

“I think you’ll like it,” was all she’d offered. 

It was not her usual, a slim champagne glass filled with prosecco and strawberry puree, but a sip of it charmed her as she slid into the chair next to Margaery. 

“What do you think?” Margery had something else in a highball glass and nearly clear. 

“It’s good. Not as sweet as I thought,” she picked up the slice of strawberry floating on top. 

“Is that so?” Margaery smiled and took a sip of her own. 

“Hi!” a chipper younger man plopped down at Margaery ’s other side holding out his hand to shake. “I’m Podrick. I think we might’ve met once a while ago.”

“Yara,” she shook back, surprised to find the man’s hand calloused despite his smooth baby face. “Margaery said you used to model for her?” 

“Oh yeah, couple of shows,” he said as if it was no big deal. “It was fun, but I mostly teach dance next store these days.” 

“He’s being modest,” Margaery’s hand landed on Yara’s knee, “Pod won the National Pole Dancing Competition this year.”

“Only in men’s not overall,” he pointed out. “But it was fun, would do again.” 

Yara looked at him with new appreciation, “That takes a lot of leg strength, doesn’t it?” 

“Oh, some,” he nodded, “it’s fun though. Makes the working out worth it.”

“What does?” Loras sat down primly in the last seat. Yara had seen him a few times around, but now she looked more closely, seeking the places he looked like Margaery. It wasn’t hard, they shared many features and the same set to their chin. But Margaery’s mouth looked more accustomed to smiling. 

“Pole dancing,” Pod chimed. 

“Right,” Loras sighed and then his eyes caught on Yara, narrowing. Before he could say anything, Tyrion was on a microphone, explaining the rules. Brienne handed out the first sheet of questions and the timer started. 

Most of them were pop culture questions which Pod sped through, helped along with Loras who seemed to know a lot about children’s media and also took over all the sports questions. Yara read through the list, most of the questions barely even registering except for the bits of media Theon had thrust on her the last few years. 

“Oh, what major city is southwest of Sarsfield?” 

Yara waited for one of them to fill it in, but they were all staring blankly down at it. 

“Lannisport,” she snorted. Their eyes all snapped to her and looked back blandly, “what?” 

They wrote that in and then quickly deferred all geography questions to her. Which made some sense, she decided. She did spend more time looking at maps, she supposed. They did reasonably well. The second round was all acronyms. 

“RADAR?” Pod tapped the pencil. 

“Radio detection and ranging,” she offered, starting to warm up to this.

By the end of the night, she was booing the winners along with Loras and four drinks in. 

“You’re all right,” Loras decided as she set a glass of water in front of him. “For a sailor.” 

“Thanks,” she snorted. “Guess you’re okay for a mainlander.” 

“Not that it matters,” he sipped it with a sigh, “she doesn’t take advice from anyone.” 

Margaery was by the bar, chatting with Brienne, who seemed to be listening despite also pouring drinks at the speed of light. She was dressed down tonight, silky hair flowing free and those tight jeans making an alluring reappearance. 

“Why should she?” Yara turned to Loras. “She knows what’s best for her.” 

“Think that’s you?” 

“Dunno,” she took a long drink of water, “I hope she thinks so though.”

“I could probably take you in a fistfight,” Loras squinted at her. “Probably.” 

“I wouldn’t bet money on that, sunshine.” 

Which was how Margaery returned to the table to find them mid-arm wrestle, Pod keeping track of bets with a wide grin on his face. It was closer than Yara would like, but she did manage to pin him after a lot of back and forth. Loras pouted while Pod handed her a cut of her winnings. 

Tyrion, who had apparently thrown quite a lot of money down in her favor, grinned at her, 

“A good end to our more intellectual challenges. Drink on the house?” 

She turned to Margaery , whose face a little flush. 

“Thanks, but I think we’re gonna head out.” 

The ride back was excruciating and their hands were on each other as soon as the door slammed behind them. They were a sweaty pile on the plush couch before long. 

“Want me to flex?” Yara teased as Margaery lazily stroked her arm. 

“Yes, you’re very impressive,” Margaery laughed.

And the words were there in her throat, but they couldn’t make it past the maze of her lips. Had she ever said them? She knew her mother had told her with quiet shakiness towards the end. Held her with frail arms and pressed them into Yara’s ear like a secret she could carry with her. 

She wasn’t sure if that’s what this was, the thick gummy warmth inside her when Margaery stretched and yawned, standing to beckon her into the bedroom. When they curled together in the dark, among Margaery’s tasteful art choices and under the thick down comforter. When she was sure Margaery was asleep, she plucked up one thick lock of hair and played with it, letting it fall between her fingers over and over like water. 

There was no room for softness in the life that Yara had made for herself. Or at least, there hadn’t been. She’d had to stand as a wall between the world and the Pyke, the world and her brother. Her mother. She had made herself a fort and never regretted it. 

Her mother had died anyway. The Pyke was doomed to fall into the ocean one day no matter what she did. Her brother had found his own way. 

So who was she guarding? Was she, like her castle above the sea, destined to become a pointless monument to a dead family? 

Margaery brought her coffee in bed in the morning and Yara wrapped her hands around the mug gratefully, not hungover, but tired to her bones. 

“Thanks.” 

“Thank you for coming last night,” Margaery folded down next to her, “I know it’s hard to get away.” 

“Yeah,” she sipped the hot liquid to hide her lack of words. 

“I do have a client this morning, but we could get lunch after and then the day is ours.” 

Yara went with her and settled into an unobtrusive corner. 

“Here,” Margaery handed her some pencils and a pad of rich thick paper, “make me another doodle.” 

“Demanding,” Yara said faintly. “And I’m not exactly an artist.” 

“So don’t make art,” Margaery shrugged and the doorbell was ringing. 

More than the room at Highgarden, more than the KL apartment, this place felt like Margaery . Everything was lush and cool, the icy blue walls and soft pale carpet unmooring it from the cold outside. There was only one window, by the door. There were tall well organized shelves laden down with fabric, some that Yara now recognized from their trip to Dorne and already completed pieces that had gone up on Instagram. 

The large worktable in the middle filled with tools of the trade, pieces that were in the middle of being born still on their mannequins. There were sketches hung and framed on the wall next to the models wearing the finished products. 

It was like being inside her brain. 

Yara doodled. She half-listened as a dignified older lady gave Margaery details of what she wanted while Margaery carefully measured and took notes. There were pieces of fabric draped and discussed more. Yara’s doodle gained dimension, the pencils an interesting tool. Usually she just had fat markers to hand when she got idle or a leaky pen. 

“Ready for lunch?” Margaery leaned over her shoulder, “Can I keep that one too?” 

Yara tore the paper out and handed it to her. It was just an old fashioned ship, three mast and round bellied in her cartoonish hand. She’d started drawing a kraken because she was a simple person sometimes, but it had morphed into thorny vines coming out of the deep to snare at the ship and drag it under. 

Margaery pinned it to her board next to the print out and stood back, then adjusted again. 

“There, perfect.” 

It looked strange, her childish scribble pinned up next to serious construction sketches for complicated gowns, but if Margaery liked it then so be it. 

She waited for things to change, to feel less weighty. The weather cleared and she was back to sailing more than she was on land, but the constant presence of the internet unless they were very far out, meant that they were never parted by much. They texted and called, flirted through their Instagram feeds until some of Margaery’s fashion fans started to pick up on it and suddenly Yara had followers telling her how much they liked her ‘salt of the sea’ statement pieces. Whatever that meant. 

On her birthday, Margaery called and told her she’d had a package mailed to the nearest port for her to pick up. As Yara waited in line at the grimy out of the way post office, she had to consider the thought that went into knowing her likely routes, where she’d stop, and that on top of just buying whatever it was. 

_Open over video chat._ the outside of the box instructed, so she waited for that night, opening her laptop in her cabin. 

“Happy birthday,” Margaery leaned into the camera. “I hope you like it.” 

Yara opened her knife and slit open the tape, then set it aside. There were layers of stiff logo’d paper inside from Margaery’s line, so she wasn’t surprised to pull out cloth. And pull, and pull. 

She gave it a quick shake and it unfolded itself, “Holy fucking shitballs.” 

“Put it on,” Margaery encouraged. 

It was a deep brown leather, almost black jacket with embroidery running down the lapels in an only slightly lighter shade. The pattern was her doodle, the one Margaery had pinned next to the sketches. The ship was more fully rendered, sitting at the peaks of the lapels, the vines full and rich with thorns and roses alike, trailing down to the waist. The duster was warm and just brushed the top of her boots. 

“Did you do this?” she ran her hands over the embroidery. 

“All of it,” Margaery smiled brightly. “Might be a bit of blood in spots. I’ve never tried to embroider leather before.” 

Her blood, her sweat, the oils of her hands had breathed life into something Yara had so carelessly created. 

“It’s amazing,” she breathed out. 

She didn’t take it off except to shower and sleep for a week. Like the leather of her boots, it softened and creased a little, allowing for more movement the more it molded it to her body. She could stand at the helm of her ship, humming old shanties and be thrown backwards in time easily. 

It had to be done. Said. But Yara knew she needed practice. At first she mouthed the words to herself, into the susurration of waves. She wanted them swallowed, inaudible even to her own ears before she tried something else. 

It took her awhile to get back to King’s Landing. She didn’t call ahead, just went straight to the cat rescue, given the time of day. Tommen was behind the counter, typing away. He looked more like himself than he had the wedding, his hair a riotous mess of curls and his frame swamped by a Godzilla themed hoodie complete with white teeth sewed into the hood. 

“How does anyone take you seriously?” Yara asked before she said hello. Luckily, Tommen seemed to have grown used to her. 

“They don’t,” he said cheerfully. “Which is fine. That’s what I have Theon for.” 

“....it is?” 

“Sure,” he finished entering whatever it was on his keyboard and stood up to come around the counter and hug her. She sort of just let it happen, patting one of his shoulders lightly. “Didn’t expect you.” 

“Yeah well, thought I’d take you and him out for lunch or something since I happened to be around.” 

“Oh,” Tommen sighed, “yeah. Theon’s not here today. Bad night.” 

She tried not to get stiff, her stomach already clenching. Bad nights still haunted her, some part of her half-listening for his stifled cries or worse when he was too far gone to stifle them and he was just screaming. More terrible still, when there was no noise at all, but she’d found him in some cramped space hours later, vacant and impossible to reach. 

“What happened?” She knew her voice was rough, too much for the situation. 

“The neighbor’s dog got out and started barking outside our door. He held up while I called them. They came and got the dog and that was fine. But then it was nightmares the rest of the night,” he gave her a tight smile, “I think the worst of it is over, but he definitely wasn’t fit to come to work today.” 

“Of course,” she said numbly, her own concerns shoved aside. She didn’t know what to do with all this nervous energy. Tommen had this covered, he’d taken over. 

“You want to go check in on him for me?” Keys were dangled in her face with a dozen plastic keychains hanging off of them. “I can give you the security code. It’d be a help, I can’t get away as easily as I thought this afternoon. I’d feel better if he had some company.” 

She didn’t snatch the keys from him, but it was a close thing. When she got there, she let herself in quietly out of habit. The living room was bright with sunlight flooding in and markedly empty. 

“Theon?” She called out. 

“In the bedroom,” he said faintly. 

Not non-verbal then. She walked down the hall, stopping in the doorway. She’d never been into their bedroom before. It felt strange to even peer in. Theon was propped up in bed, still in his pajamas, a laptop perched on a pillow in front of him. His huge orange cat was shoved in next to him, deeply asleep while Tommen’s two were sprawled in the window sill under the noon sun. Lala yawned as she came in, stretching, her claws extended briefly before she turned back into a barely animate ball. 

“Tommen said you were coming by,” Theon sat up a little, ran his hand through his hair. “I meant to go shower.” 

“Whatever, you smell no matter what you do,” she took a step in and then another. 

His bedroom at the Pyke had been different. It had been more of their shared space after so many years of grappling with recovery and she’d gone in and out without much care. But that was behind them now. This was Tommen’s space first, Theon's second and not hers at all. 

“Shut up,” he flipped her off half-heartedly. “I’m watching people try to win money by doing an obstacle course. There’s a lot of mud. Want to watch with me?” 

She bent down to take off her boots, setting them down by the side of the bed. She sat down carefully, as if jarring him might hurt. The cat rumbled between them, flattening out to press against her thigh, rubbing his orange head against her leg. 

It smelled like citrus and panic sweat, but she barely processed that as Theon hit play again. They watched in silence until Theon drifted to sleep. He was sagged against the pillows, his head inclined toward hers. She reached out and paused the show, but didn’t get up. Instead she pulled out her phone and played crappy matching games while his nose whistled away. 

It wasn’t until the light was nearly gone, plunging them into overheated darkness that she said softly, 

“I love you.” 

He snored on. But she felt lighter. Better. 

He woke up eventually and managed a shower while she migrated to the kitchen to make coffee. Tommen came home with heavy bags of take out and they ate spicy food on the back deck. 

And maybe because the floodgates were at last open, when she got up to leaves, she clasped Theon’s wrist and managed to say it again right to his surprised face. 

“Yeah,” he said roughly, clasping right back. “Love you too, sis.” 

No one died. No one even cried. It was just fine. Truth said aloud and almost entirely normal. 

“Come down to visit,” she wheedled Ygritte a week or so later. 

She took out a small speed boat, Ygritte laughing with pleasure as they circled the islands, her hair a red banner trailing after her. In the heat of the afternoon, they opened the cooler and ate bland sandwiches and drank Ygritte’s fancy beers. 

“Hey,” Yara kicked at her foot, “you know I love you, right?” 

“Sure,” Ygritte grinned, her teeth all on display, “same.” 

She didn’t say it to Jon. There were limits. He’d only make it weird. 

Anyway, that was enough practice. She had the lay of the land now. After some debate, she didn’t make a particular fuss about the day. They’d been seeing each other for nearly nine months now, it probably wouldn’t be a surprise. 

Though there was the lingering question, thick in the air, if Margaery would say it back or if she was throwing herself into freefall of silence and a stilted ‘Thanks’. 

So she’d do it on her turf. 

Margaery looked right on the ship these days, though she still stuck out in her tailored jeans and oversized plaid shirts held together by jangling belts, but no one paid her any mind, working around her as she sketched. They were headed toward King’s Landing, returning from the Pyke. Margaery’s first visit there had gone well, the sun consenting to show it’s face most of the time. With someone to show off a little for, Yara had taken her down to the basements where they’d poured through old statues, paintings, and furnishings that had been cast aside over the years. They’d found a couch with deep plum velvet covering with only a few moth holes and Margaery had laid claim to it. 

It had been a bit of an ordeal getting it down cliffside, but it was well worth it to hear Margaery’s plans to give the old thing a new life. 

Now she sat on a crate like it was a throne, drawing a gown that she explained was inspired by the jutting cliffs of the Pyke. Yara sat down next to her, their bodies not quite touching. She looked at their feet, at the thick leather of her boots and pristine whiteness of Margaery’s flats. How she kept them clean on board as a mystery Yara had given up on puzzling out. 

“I think multiple shades of grey,” Margaery said softly, almost to herself, “from dark to light in transparent panels, so it’s like a gathering storm. I could build out a collection from it, play with ranges, something more raw.” 

“Sounds interesting,” Yara agreed. And weirdly it was. With the sketch, Yara could imagine the gown coming to life and how it might move. 

“Got to get the show done for West Week first though,” the pencil tapped in the corner of the drawing, faint dots left behind. “I won’t be very available that week, a word of warning. It’s frantic.” 

“All right,” that would be strange. They’d been in nearly constant conversation all this time. “I wouldn’t want to distract you.” 

Margaery finally shifted, bringing their bodies together, warmth pressed from ankle to shoulder 

“It’s more that I’m impossible during shows. You’ve missed it so far because they’ve been short. But the whole week is hobnobbing and going to see everyone elses’ work while you sweat over your own,” she sighed. “I can’t talk to anyone without snapping by the end.” 

“Eh, you can snap at me,” Yara wrapped her hand around Margaery’s, used to the way their fingers fit together now. “I’ve got a tough hide.” 

“I don’t want to though. You make me want to be kinder.” 

“You’re already kind,” Yara snorted. “Nicer than me.” 

“Nice isn’t kind,” she corrected absently. 

The water was calm, just the regular slap of small waves against the hull. The sun was starting to sink, the sky going orange and pink. Margaery put her head down on Yara’s shoulder as they watched the colors change. 

“I love you,” Yara said softly. Margaery ’s grips tightened on her hand. “No obligation or anything. I just wanted you to know. That I do. That I probably will for a really long time.” 

“You know,” Margaery sounded a little surprised, “I think that I love you too.”  
  
It was impractical to move in together, their lives didn’t allow for it. But Yara’s clothes found their way to drawers in Highgarden and King’s Landing. Her ship favored jobs that landed in those ports. And Margaery spent long weekends at the Pyke, making it feel more lived in. A little more loved. 

They were of the ocean and of the soil, but they made it work. Because they didn’t need anyone, no one at all. It was good though, to feel wanted. 

So Yara was thirty-seven years old. She loved her the sea, her brother, her friends, and her lover. And some days she got to stand at the helm of her ship in her great leather coat and a scarf tied around her forehead and watch the beloved form of her sweetheart grow closer and closer, a reunion sweetly ahead.


End file.
